The Drifter (15 page)

Tom got to his feet first, his mouth leaking blood. He stood glaring at Frank.

Someone out on the boardwalk yelled, “Here comes Doc Bracken. Get out of the way, boys!"

“Get your friend on his feet,” Frank told Tom. “Right now!"

Jerry pushed open the batwings just as both young trouble-hunters were on their feet, wobbly, but standing.

“Jerry,” Frank said, “I want you to get statements from as many people as you can about this shooting. Get their names and tell them to drop by the office in the morning to verify and sign all they told you."

“Will do, Frank."

Frank motioned with the muzzle of the right hand Colt. “Move, boys. To the jail."

“It was self-defense, Marshal!” Tom shouted. “He was pesterin' us."

“That's a damn lie,” a miner said. “It was them pesterin' the other guy. They goaded him into a gunfight. They pushed him real hard. I wouldn't have tooken near'bouts as much as that other feller took. He had to fight. That's all there was to it. They didn't give him no choice in the matter. None a'tall."

“Yore a damn liar, mister!” Carl said.

“Give your story to my deputy,” Frank told the man. “Move, boys."

“You're makin' a mistake, Marshal,” Carl said.

“Shut up and move. If the other man started the trouble, you can ride on out of town."

“You son of a bitch!” Tom cussed him.

“Be careful, boy,” Frank warned him. “Don't let your ass overload your mouth."

Frank locked the pair up and once more hit the streets. He began prowling the new makeshift saloons, and there were about a dozen wood-frame, canvas-covered drinking spots that had sprung up since the new silver strike and the rumors of a major gold strike.

The evening's rambling and searching produced nothing. Frank could flush no one. He finally gave it up and returned to the office.

“Any luck?” Jerry asked.

Frank shook his head as he poured a mug of coffee. “If I did see them, they're mighty cool ole boys. I didn't produce a single bobble."

“I might be on to something,” Jerry said.

“Oh?"

“Four men are living in a tent ‘bout a mile out of town.” He pointed. “That way. Off the west trail. They staked a claim, but no one's ever seen them working it. Man I've known since I come to town told me about them. Only reason he brought it up was ‘cause those ole boys is real unfriendly and surly like. I questioned him some and he said he seen them ride out ‘bout noon today, and they didn't come back ‘til late afternoon."

“You did good, Jerry. I appreciate it."

“There's more, Frank. My friend thinks one of them has a bolt-action rifle."

Frank sugared his coffee and stirred slowly. “I'll pay those ole boys a visit first thing in the morning. Going up there tonight would be asking for trouble."

“It sure would. And it isn't against the law to be unfriendly."

Frank smiled. “You're right about that. If it was, half the population would be in jail. How did the questioning over at the saloon go?"

“Those two trouble-hunters we have locked up started the whole thing. They needled the other fellow into pulling on them. But the other guy did go for his gun first."

“They'll probably get off, then. If the other man drew first, I don't know of any major charges that could be brought against them. But we'll keep them locked up until the judge opens court. It's his mess to deal with now. You go on to bed, Jerry. I'll make the late rounds."

“You sure, Frank?"

“Oh, yeah. I'm not a bit sleepy. Besides, I need to go over to the funeral parlor and find out what I can about the dead man."

“See you in the morning, Frank."

“'Night, Jer."

At the funeral parlor, Frank walked into the back, where the nude body of the stranger was on a narrow table. Malone was preparing the body for burial. He looked up as Frank strolled in.

“No identification on the body, Marshal. He had fifty dollars on him. Ten dollars in silver, the rest in paper. His gun and clothes and boots are over there on that table next to the wall."

Frank carefully inspected the dead man's boots and gunbelt for a hidden compartment. There was nothing. “I'll pick up the gun and rig in the morning,” he told Malone.

Malone nodded his head and kept working on the body. Frank got out of there. He walked over to the livery and asked if anyone fitting the dead man's description had stabled his horse there. The night holster nodded and pointed to a roan in a stall.

“Where's his saddle?” Frank asked.

“In the storeroom. Saddle, saddlebags, and rifle in a boot. Far right-hand corner."

Frank carried the gear over to the office and stored it as quietly as possible. Jerry was already in his room, in his bunk, snoring softly. Frank would go through the saddlebags in the morning, but he didn't expect to find anything in the way of identification. The grave would be just another unmarked one in a lonely cemetery. The West had hundreds of such graves. On the Oregon Trail, it was said, there were two or three graves for every mile of the pioneer trek westward. And still the people came, hundreds every week.

During his wanderings, Frank had seen countless abandoned cabins. He wondered how many of the pioneers gave up after a few years and went back east.

Frank locked up the office and walked over to the Silver Spoon for a cup of coffee. The place was dark, closed for the night.

He began making his rounds of the town, checking the doors of the businesses. He cut up the alley and came out near the Henson Enterprises building. He watched the building for a moment, then decided to check the windows and back door. The back door was unlocked.

Frank pushed open the door and saw the faint glint of lamplight under the door, coming from Viv's office. Frank put his hand on the butt of his .45.

Then the door opened and Conrad stepped out. He spotted the dark shape of Frank and gasped, “Oh, my God! Don't shoot?"

“Damn, boy!” Frank said. “What the hell are you doing down here this time of night?"

“Marshal! Well ... doing some necessary paperwork. Mother neglected her duties this afternoon. Mr. Dutton arrived on the stage, and was displeased to find mother gone gallivanting about the countryside while so much work was left unattended here."

“Who the hell is Dutton?"

“Our company's chief attorney."

“What business is it of his what the president of Henson Enterprises does in her spare time?"

“I resent your tone, Marshal!"

“I don't give a damn what you resent. Your mother and I are old friends—a friendship that goes back twenty years. If she wants to go riding and relax, that's her business—none of yours, and sure as hell none of this Dutton fellow's. Is that clear, Conrad?"

“If you're such ‘old friends'”—the young man put a lot of grease on the last two words—“why weren't you mentioned before now? Personally, I think you're both lying. What is it between you and my mother?"

“We're friends, Conrad. That's all. As to why I wasn't mentioned years back ... well, after all, I do have something of an unsavory reputation. In very polite Boston society it just wouldn't do for your mother to let people know she was friends with a gunfighter."

“Ummm. Well, you're certainly correct in that assumption. But I still believe there is more ... a lot more than either of you are willing to tell. And I shall make it my business to find out what."

Frank sighed. The young man was a bulldog, no doubt about that. “Whatever, Conrad. Where is this Dutton fellow?"

“At the hotel."

“Come on, then. Close up the place, and I'll escort you back to the house."

“I am perfectly capable of seeing myself home, Marshal. I bought a pistol today."

“God help us all,” Frank muttered.

“Beg pardon?"

“Nothing, Conrad. What kind of pistol?"

“This one,” Conrad said, reaching inside his coat and hauling out a Colt Frontier double action revolver. He pointed it at Frank, and Frank quickly pushed the muzzle to one side and took the weapon.

Frank stepped closer to the light streaming through the open door and inspected the pistol. A .45 caliber. “It's a good pistol, Conrad. Have you fired it yet?"

“Certainly not! And I won't until it becomes necessary."

“I ... see. I think."

“It shouldn't take too much expertise to discharge a firearm. One simply points the weapon and pulls the trigger. Right, Marshal?"

“Well—"

“So, considering this recent firearm purchase, I shall now take over the job of protecting my mother. Your services will no longer he needed. If indeed they ever were."

“Is that right?"

“Quite."

Resisting a sudden urge to jerk a knot in the boy/man's butt, Frank instead suggested, “Why don't we let your mother decide that, Conrad?"

Conrad didn't speak for several seconds, then said, “Oh, very well, Marshal. Let's don't go into a lot of folderol about it. Now I have to lock up."

“I'll wait for you, Conrad."

“Very well, Marshal. If you insist."

Conrad blew out the lamps and locked the back door. Frank waited in the darkness of the alley. When Conrad turned around, Frank said, “Have you eaten, Conrad?"

The young man looked at Frank. Even in the darkness, Frank could feel Conrad's attitude toward him soften. “Why ... yes, I have, Marshal. Thank you for asking."

“Come on, let's get out of this alley."

On the boardwalk, in a bit more light from newly installed oil lamps along the way, Conrad asked, “Who were those gunmen after today, Marshal—you or my mother?"

“I don't know, Conrad.” Frank knew very little about the why of those wanting Vivian out of the way, but he did know he was not going to discuss it with Conrad. “Has your mother said anything?"

“Precious little. But something is weighing very heavily on her mind. I can tell that. She just won't open up to me. Perhaps she will, in time."

“I'm sure she will, Conrad."

They walked on for a half block. Frank felt his guts tighten as four men stepped out of an alley. They were lurching along as if they were drunk, but Frank wasn't sure about that. When they began singing, he was certain they were pretending.

“When I tell you to run, Conrad, don't argue with me, and for God's sake don't hesitate. Just run like the devil is after you. You understand?"

“Yes, sir. Those men up ahead of us?"

“Yes. I'm sure they're going to pull something. Get ready to flee, boy."

The four men began to separate until they were covering the whole boardwalk. Frank watched as one slipped his hand under his coat. When the hand came out holding a six-gun, Frank yelled, “Go, boy! Run!"

Conrad took off, and Frank snaked his Colt out of leather.

 

 

 

Seventeen

 

 

Frank dived behind a water trough just as the quartet opened up, the lead howling all around him. He managed to snap off one shot that brought a yelp of either pain or surprise from one of the gunmen—Frank wasn't sure.

He was astonished when a shout came from the other side of the street.

“You filthy savages!” Conrad shouted. “Damn you all!” Conrad pointed his big .45 in the general direction of the quartet of gunmen and pulled the trigger.

The bullet tore the hat off one of the men and sent him hollering and scampering toward a doorway stoop. “Jesus Christ!” he yelled.

Conrad's next shot knocked the heel off the left boot of another man and sent him sprawling to the boardwalk. “My leg!” he squalled. “I'm hit, boys!"

Jiggs from the apothecary shop came running up the boardwalk, a shotgun in his hand, just as Conrad cut loose again. The bullet whined past Jiggs's head, missing his nose by about one hot half-inch.

“Oh, shit!” the druggist whooped, and he ran for cover into the general store ... right through the closed and locked front door. Jiggs took the door with him.

“Get that punk!” one of the gunmen yelled.

Conrad pointed the .45 at the man and triggered off another round. The bullet took off a tiny piece of the man's ear, and the assassin started jumping up and down and yelling as if he'd been touched by a hot branding iron.

“I been shot in the head, boys. Oh, Lordy, I'm done for, I reckon."

Conrad shot him again ... or at least came really close to upsetting the man's evenings for a long time to come. The bullet nicked the gunman's inner thigh, just a microscopic distance from his privates.

“Oh, good God!” the man screamed. “I'm ruint, boys. He's done shot me in the balls!"

Conrad took that time to reload with a handful of cartridges from his coat pocket. Fully loaded, he continued his cussing, shouting insults, and firing.

“You rotten scalawags!” Conrad shouted. “You all belong in a cage!"

“Then put me in a cage!” yelled the man who thought he'd been shot in the doo-das. He had both hands between his legs, holding onto his precious parts ... what he thought was left of them. “Anywhere! Just get me away from that crazy kid!"

“I'm out of here,” the fourth outlaw yelled, running up to where Frank lay crouched behind the water trough.

Frank reached out and grabbed the man's ankle, spilling him onto the boardwalk. The man lost his pistol on his way down, banged his head on the rough boards, and knocked himself goofy for a few minutes.

Conrad fired again, the bullet knocking splinters into the face of the man who had lost his hat to Conrad's first shot.

“I yield!” the man yelled, throwing down his gun. “Don't shoot no more."

“Somebody get me a doctor!” shouted the man who thought he'd been violently deprived of his private parts as hot blood from the nick on his thigh ran down his leg. “Oh, Lord, get me to a doctor."

Frank then realized what the man was so upset about. He got to his boots, trying to keep from laughing at the total absurdity of the entire situation, and told the man who thought he'd been shot in the gonads, “What do you think the doctor's going to do, you idiot, sew the sac back on?"